Only her late husband had possessed a portion thereof.
A meager dosage.
“Ah, Rhona…” She sighed, folded her arms. “You think this fabled and mighty Highlander, this man of honor, will lay aside his morals and agree to pose as my third husband?”
“You are seeing it the wrong way.” Rhona ceased her pacing and again tapped a finger against her lips. After a moment, the finger stilled and she smiled. “’Tis for honor’s sake he will agree. What man of compassion, of worth, could refuse a gentlewoman in need?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I do.” Rhona’s smile deepened. “I haven’t a doubt.”
“Is that so?”
“To be sure.” The tapping started again. “Especially if you inform Lady Linnet of the near ruination facing Dunlaidir.”
“Near ruination?” Caterine tamped down a bitter laugh. “We ran past that place ages ago.”
“I know, my lady.” Rhona pressed her hands together, her gaze desperate. “Once the severity of our situation is known,” she started anew, “no man who abides by the code of chivalry would refuse you.”
Saints cherish her, but Caterine didn’t think so either.
Then so be it, she almost said, but a loud clap of thunder silenced her before she could form the words, stealing them as surely as if a swift hand had snatched them from her lips.
The thunder cracked again, a tremendous and resounding series of booms powerful enough to shake the floorboards and jar the window shutters.
The storm’s black fury was a portent, she knew.
A sign the saints disapproved of the sacrilege Rhona would see her commit.
Or worse, an indication they agreed and frowned on her refusal to heed her friend’s suggestion.
Something she would not, could not, do.
Caterine waited for the storm’s rage to lessen, then smoothed the folds of her woolen gown. Before she lost her resolve, her nerve, she drew back her shoulders and forced herself to speak the words she must.
“Lady Rhona, I appreciate your concern and know you are ever looking out for my welfare,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “But I forbid you to mention this matter again. I will not send for a champion.”
Chapter 2
Eilean Donan Castle,
Western Highlands, a fortnight later…
Many leagues away, on the other side of Scotland, deep in the great, mist-cloaked hills of Kintail, a lone warrior knight fought an invisible foe. Naught but the repeated swish of his sword arcing through the chill air marred the quiet.
Even Loch Duich, hidden from view over the curtain wall, gave itself silent, its dark surface no doubt smooth as finely fired glass for not so much as a ripple, not the gentlest lapping of waves on the pebbled shore could be heard.
The hour was well before dawn, the time of day Sir Marmaduke Strongbow favored for practicing his martial skills. Soon, Eilean Creag Castle would come alive, the empty bailey would fill with a bustle of activity and his overlord’s squires would trickle into the lists to join him, each one eager for him to prod and teach them.
Help them hone their own sword arms.
But for the moment, he stood alone.
Free to challenge his secret enemies, daring enough to face down the most formidable of them all: his own self and the self-created demons he carried within.
He paused and drew a deep breath, then swiped the back of his arm over his damp forehead. The plague take his cares. The saints knew he had much to be grateful for. Soon his own castle would be completed. Indeed, were he not a man who enjoyed his comforts, he’d move into Balkenzie now, this very day.
But he’d waited long years to raise his banner over a stronghold of his own, a few more months would not cost him overmuch. Then all would be ready and he’d take possession of his new home.
